Their Epic Saga: BBQ, Harpsichord, and Quiches
by 142staircases
Summary: A hilarious oneshot of Katie and Oliver's relationship through the ages. Many fails as well as BBQ, Harpsichord, and Quiches say it all. We hope you enjoy this! Please R&R.


A/N: Coco wrote this story so that she and Cece could say that they wrote a KOLIVER!!! (Yes, a fic about Katie and Oliver is spelled that way and contains that many exclamation marks.) It turned out to be a lot of fun. ENJOAH!!!

Disclaimer: Nopeskidizzles.

It had been a long and strenuous day. When I apparated into my cramped apartment, my thoughts were on a nice, hot shower, an old movie, and lots of strawberry-peanut butter ice cream. I unceremoniously hurled my bag onto the kitchen counter and proceeded to the bathroom for a shower. I sighed as I turned the tap on full blast, steam quickly fogging up the mirror. The day would have been much less nerve-racking if it wasn't for that bloody article. My confounded boss had all but ordered that I interview him. I really didn't want to. I begged and pleaded; I used every trick in the book, but Rita wouldn't budge.

"I don't know what your problem is. It's just a short article. And honestly, four uninterrupted hours with the Quidditch World's hottest bachelor?... Hm... That's a good title actually. _Rising Star in the Quidditch World, Oliver Wood: Young, Sexy, Single." _ I cringed at Rita's preferred choice of title. "Too bad I'm booked. I would _love _to work that article. If you know what I mean." She winked. Eww. That woman is repulsive; she has to be, what, forty years older than him? I sighed and resigned myself to the fact that I would have to interview my ex-boyfriend, family friend, and Quidditch captain for _Witch Weekly._ Awkward and embarrassed don't even begin to cover how I had felt at that moment.

I climbed out of the shower feeling slightly better. I put on my favorite pair of pajama pants (green and orange stripes with shiny red quaffles) and my favorite t-shirt (It said "need a chaser?" and showed several empty shot glasses and a bottle of water). This t-shirt was, coincidentally, from the goody bag of the ghastly pre-Quidditch World Cup party I had to cover for the first Cup after the war. Rita, poor misinformed woman, had told me it was a black tie affair, so I had shown up in a floor-length black ball gown. I had discovered, much to my chagrin, that the event was an outdoor barbacue. Everyone was in jeans and England T-shirts. Horrified, I had nevertheless held my head up high and proceeded into the fray. Oliver quickly found me, and after having a good laugh about my getup, we got to talking. The sexual tension was out of control; It was just like it had been all through fourth year. He could not stop eyeing me in my dress, and when both of us reached for the same rib, our hands collided. Above our entwined digits, our eyes met. I smoldered. He quickly broke the gaze and offered me the rib, which, in my moment of distraction, I dropped on my dress. At least it made Oliver laugh.

"Wow Katie, you haven't changed a bit!" he chortled. "Flora would love you. She would get such a kick out of you!"

"Oh. And who is Flora?" _And what schadenfreude-obsessed creature would find ruining a thousand galleon dress amusing?_ But that part was in my head.

"You don't know? Flora Bucket is my girlfriend. She was the year below me in Ravenclaw. Tall, blond?" I recalled Flora. A busty, blond bimbo who had brains only for rote memorization and facts. A total groupie. "And what about you Katie, anyone special?" I commenced to tell him about Norman Harpsichord, my boyfriend. I played him up a lot. I left out his woman fanny and his anal retentive tendencies, such as organizing his (ironed) underwear. _Make Oliver jealous_ was the only coherent thought that had been going through my head at the time, though it was accompanied by many internal shrieks and images of myself strangling Flora Bucket. _How Oliver changed_, my envious mind told me. He didn't used to be shallow enough to date groupies who were clearly into him just because of his fame. The Oliver I remember was completely selfless and kind. I was raised as a Muggle, not-knowing that my mother was a witch and, in her day, had been besties with Oliver's mother. So when I arrived at Platform 9¾, I knew no one. I ended up sitting in a compartment with a boy named Gareth Virgil. Gareth's humongous glasses magnified his eyes to twenty times their size. He stared at me over his bowtie and demanded to know my name. I told him. He proceeded to tell me about his obsession with ballet and his collection of porcelain unicorns. I needed to escape… badly. He then started talking about his allergies. Let me tell you, Gareth was allergic to everything. He had been on the BBC for being allergic to everything. He even showed me the hypoallergenic cloth (covered in unicorns dancing ballet) he had to sit on so his buttocks did not erupt in a painful rash because of the seat leather of the train. The situation would have been hilarious had it not made me entirely uncomfortable. And then I was rescued. My savior came in the form of a friendly fourth year who introduced himself as, "Oliver. Our mum's were best mates at Hogwarts." He somehow knew who I was. I stammered a quick thanks and he helped me out of my seat (always the gentleman he was). I waved goodbye to Gareth and we hightailed it out of the car. We erupted into giggles outside of the door. From there, despite the age difference, our friendship was fast. Oliver became almost a big brother to me.

For some reason the blasted QWC kept coming back to me. Oliver had suggested that our old team from Hoggies go to the match together as he was playing Keeper because England's main keeper, a monobrowed man with a bad overbite, was seriously injured. He claimed it would be a "good reconnecting experience." So we all went. I ended up sitting next to Harry, who was macking on Ginny the whole time. Every time Oliver saved a goal, he felt the need to seize Ginny and passionately make out with her. It was thoroughly vile. I had recently broken up with Norman and was feeling very touchy. Oliver had also recently broken up with Flower, or whatever her name was. He must've put some of his pent up rage into his game because they won the match: 900-10. I know, pathetic. But, if Oliver hadn't played so well and the team hadn't won, he would not have become even more famous, been granted the position of starting Keeper on Puddlemere United, and, most importantly, I would not have had to do the interview.

God I did not want to do this. If he had just remained wonderful-big-brother-like Ollie (as I called him when I was a kid), it would have been so much easier to sit in a room and write the damn article. I wouldn't have even had to interview him. I would have known exactly how to respond. But the summer before my second year, Oliver taught me how to fly and play Quidditch properly. I mean, I had been a reserve my first year, but it was basically my fault we lost the final. One of the chasers was bludgered off his broom and I had to fly in to take his place. Having not really practiced with the team, (I was only a first year!) I flew the best I could. At the end of the match, I was sobbing. I had dropped the quaffle four times and probably would've continued to drop it more had the team continued to pass to me. I also accidentally got two goals for Slytherin and knocked Angelina off her broom while she was trying to score. It was a fiasco. Oliver comforted me, though. He was upset, but he didn't blame me. He said I flew better than I ever had before, but I needed a little more shaping up. So he tutored me, and in second year, I made the team. Our friendship continued to grow.

I found myself in the kitchen. All this reminiscing about Oliver was making me hungry. I wondered what to make. My pantry was bare; I usually ordered in from Chandi Chowk's Wizarding Food Service, as I was not much of a cook. I only had some cheese, bay leaves, eggs, _Fiber One_ Cereal, broccoli, pinot noir, and a frozen piecrust. I figured I could attempt a quiche. I'd had a strange fascination with quiches ever since St. Mungo's. Touching that damned necklace really set me off my rocker for a long time; I was in the hospital for most of seventh year. Though I was non-communicative, I could still hear, something no one seemed to realize. Oliver came to visit me. He talked about quiches. Bacon and spinach ones to be exact. He also mentioned how much he missed me.

_ No, _I told myself, _snap out of it, you and Oliver are over. Stop reminiscing!_

_ Actually, _another voice in my head countered, _you could still have a chance with him if you hadn't started dating that weirdo._ Yuck. What possessed me to date Norman Harpsichord I will never know. He was a cankled Muggle who created magic-themed computer games. On the side he solved rubix cubes and went to calculus classes for fun. Norman was very picky. None of his food could touch his other food and he refused to eat meat. He claimed it messed up his "mathematical aura." In my books, vegetarian is as bad as it can get; yet somehow, I managed to live with one for quite some time. I guess after the final Battle of Hogwarts I just wanted to escape the wizarding world for a while.

Speaking of the Battle of Hogwarts, I met up with Oliver again there. At the time I had just started dating Norman and was doing some freelance writing for the Quibbler. I wanted to kiss Oliver so badly at the battle. All I could think was that I would never see him again. What if one of us died without me telling him that I still liked him and wanted to be with him? We fought Yaxley together. We were a dream team, even when he "accidentally" grabbed me in inappropriate places while reaching to throttle a Death Eater who couldn't pronounce his "r's." I did my best to ignore that while we fought, though.

I slammed the quiche into the oven and selected normal clothes—jeans and a tank. Appropriate choices for the warm summer night.

It had been a warm night then, too. It was the day before the start of my fourth year and Oliver's seventh year. He was sleeping over at my house so we could get the train together. He was flirting with me and teasing me mercilessly. This was quite a change from our pally-pally friendship of my second and third years. I also noticed how handsome and _old_ Oliver had become. He was a seventh year for Godric's sake!

That night set the tone for the rest of the year's theme. I liked Oliver. He liked me. But we just never got together. There was one night (wild party in the Gryf common room, don't ask) where we could've but Fred Weasley, with a cockblocking twinkle in his eye, kept usurping Oliver to discuss Quidditch tactics. Several times, I ran into Oliver in Hogsmeade when we were both alone. He'd start stammering and stutter through his sentences while I would stand in front of him and giggle, twirling my hair like an idiot. For some reason, at these moments, Angelina and Alicia would always show up and whisk me away. More opportunities lost. _Finally, _when we won the Cup, at the celebratory party in the common room, we kissed. It was beautiful. I felt like I was floating on a cloud. To borrow a metaphor: the monster in my chest had been released and was standing next to Oliver and I, roaring its approval in the form of the catcalling and whistling crowd that witnessed our embrace. I was in heaven. We started dating. All through my fifth year he would visit me on weekends and we'd go to Hogsmeade together. I had never been happier before in my life. That year, I went home for Christmas. And on Christmas Eve, while all my friends were at deciding which Durmstrang boys were "hot in a yummy, dark, Snape-ish type of way," I lost my virginity to Oliver.

Shortly after the start of my sixth year, Oliver broke up with me. I was a wreck. He said he couldn't do the long distance thing anymore. He said his career was really taking off—it was, I'll give him that—and he said he should, and I quote, "be able to interact with whomever he wanted to without hurting me." In other words, he wanted some groupie ass. I was furious. If it had just been the Quidditch I would've understood. Quidditch would always be Oliver's first great love, but the groupies? He'd have to do some explaining for that one if he ever wanted my forgiveness. Not that he ever had gotten around to explaining. We weren't really friends anymore.

There was a rap at my door. I ran to get it. I seized the handle and yanked the door open.

Oliver. On my doorstep. Holding flowers. Was I dreaming? I pinched myself. It hurt. I pinched myself harder. It really hurt; I would probably have a bruise come morning.

"Are you going to let me in or not?" He joked. I meant to say, "Yes please come in, make yourself at home. I hope the interview wasn't too grueling." Instead, in my shock, all the words got garbled together and came out "Yeashprakaash."

He chuckled, marched in, and handed me the flowers. "Katie, I know you don't deserve me. But the interview today, it made me realize… I really missed you. I never stopped liking you. I was a fool."

Screw his explaining and forgiveness. I had my Oliver back.

Another A/N: If you enjoyed this story, we'd really appreciate some feedback. Preferably in the form of a nice, long, fat review. Thanks for reading!


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